


The Rose of Fortuna

by Skyler10



Series: The Rose of Fortuna 'verse [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Artist Rose Tyler, F/M, Fluff, Meet-Cute, Nobility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 05:20:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26347762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyler10/pseuds/Skyler10
Summary: Rose is an artist who loves to draw at an old country estate, which is managed by the grandson of Lord Wilfred Mott. Both of them have more to them than meets the eye, however.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler
Series: The Rose of Fortuna 'verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956685
Comments: 140
Kudos: 145





	1. Sketch

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO there! I know it has been a while. Over a year since my last fic! Thank you all for continuing to read my stories and leave lovely kudos and comments. I hope you enjoy this one as well.

Rose Tyler flipped open her sketchpad and surveyed the garden around her. The old man who owned this historic estate and grounds, the Lord of Cribbenswick (or Lord Wilfred, as he was known to everyone in the community) was kind enough to open it up to the public for tours, education, and classes. The latter, an art class, is what led to Rose being there. She was from a well-off enough family, daughter of Pete Tyler the founder and CEO of a number of companies, but it was all new money. She’d been born working class and they had risen quickly in society, but plenty of the old-money type would say she was still nothing more than a London chav. No matter how she masked her accent, her roots always showed eventually, usually once her temper flared. 

She settled on sketching the scene in front of her: a rose-surrounded statue of Fortuna, her dad’s favorite, of course. Perhaps if it turned out well, she’d paint it and give it to him for father’s day. 

For a long while, only the babbling of a fountain, the distant chatter of her fellow students, and the scratch of her pencils against the paper provided the soundtrack to her work. That is, until a man’s footsteps approached. She didn’t want to break her flow and hoped he would pass quickly. She almost groaned aloud when he stopped. She was glad she restrained herself, however, when she looked up to see a gorgeous young man in a well-fitted suit standing a few feet away. 

“Oh. Hallo,” he said gently. “I didn’t want to disturb you. Sorry.” He gave a little wave and a small smile that melted her like chocolate on a summer’s day. 

“Hi,” she exhaled. She returned his little wave and smile. 

“I’ll just, um…” He gestured behind himself and started to turn away. 

“No!” she called, startling them both. “I mean, wait. It’s ok. You can walk through here if you want. I don’t … own the path or anything.” She blushed as she caught him holding back a laugh. She was truly a wreck when it came to men. 

He seemed to be reading something in her as he approached. She waited for him to recognize her from some art fundraiser or gala or another. His suit was a dead giveaway that he wasn’t exactly here for a public tour. 

“Mind if I join you for a bit?” He pointed to the concrete bench she was sitting on. “These shoes are awful and I’ve been leading tours all morning.” 

She scooted to the far side of the bench, leaving him plenty of room in clear invitation, which he took. 

“Ah, so you’re a tour guide here? A docent inside the house?” 

His funny smile was back, the one that looked like half a laugh, especially in his eyes. 

“Among other things.” 

With that cryptic answer, she was hooked. She set her sketchbook between them and studied him. Excellent hair, eyes she could get lost in, bone structure of a god, and, yes, sure, he was quite skinny, but he knew how to wear a suit that made him look fit and not like a lanky schoolboy playing fancy dress. There was something playful about how he leaned in and winked at her. Oh dear, he was speaking. What had he been saying?

“Never been one for luck, but it’s peaceful. I’ll give you that.” He looked from the garden scene down to her sketchbook. “Well, until strange men come traipsing in, ruining it for you.” 

He said it as a statement, a joke, but it seemed to be a question all the same. 

“I don’t mind,” she said sincerely. She shrugged. “I’m out here nearly every weekend I can get away from work. If the weather holds, of course.” 

“Of course.” He nodded. “Wonder I haven’t seen you here before.” 

“Exactly what I was going to say,” she returned. “Do you usually work Saturdays?” 

“Ah.” He bowed his head and raised it again to stare out at the garden. “Not often, no. I’m sad to say it.” 

She waited to see if he’d say more, but their moment was interrupted by a voice calling. A ginger woman stamped around the corner, from the direction of the house. 

“Stop flirting and come on!” She barely glanced at Rose as she shouted at this young man beside her… whose name Rose realized she didn’t even know. Here she was practically falling for him and she didn’t even know his name. 

It was too late, though. He was standing to leave.

Her stomach sank as she realized this woman was likely his wife or girlfriend, come to take him home. The assumption he had been flirting implied he worked his charms on other women often. Her stomach sank again. She sighed as the couple bickered. Just like her to find an unhappily coupled pretty boy, even while simply minding her own business. 

He was turning to her now. 

“I’m sorry, I really have to go. It was lovely chatting with you though. Perhaps I’ll see you around again soon?” 

“Yeah, perhaps.” Rose gave him a half-hearted smile. He hesitated, but the ginger woman shouted again and he followed, not without protesting. 

Rose returned to her drawing of Fortuna and the rose bushes, but her heart wasn’t in it. She finished up just as her instructor called to the class that it was time to board the motorcoach back to the town. 

The heat of the day and the exhaustion of the journey set in on the drive back. She dreamt about him as she floated into a nap. They were dancing in the garden. He pulled a pink and yellow rose out of thin air and handed it to her.  _ It’s called a Fortuna tea rose _ , he explained.

She took the rose, but as soon as his hand brushed hers, he disappeared. 


	2. Sculpt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a second chance to connect with the artist from the garden!

His reflection sighed back at him as he did his bow tie with practiced hands. John Mott, eldest grandson of Wilfred Mott, Lord of Cribbenswick, was never one for lavish parties. Oh sure, he enjoyed the festivities and the nibbles and the rare intriguing conversation, but the stuffy clothes and people and pomp were wasted on him. His idea of a party was Mykonos with a daiquiri in one hand and a book in the other. When he was younger, perhaps a classmate from Cambridge or a pretty lab partner, but they always had ambitions larger than sitting around worrying over the expensive upkeep of historic estates. None of them seemed right. There just wasn’t that spark. 

If he were honest with himself, which he rarely allowed himself to be, it wasn’t true that there was  _ never  _ a spark. There was the artist in the garden last weekend. She had captivated him. He hadn’t intended to disturb her, but it felt wrong simply observing her. He felt compelled toward her and couldn’t stop himself from starting a conversation. 

Even better, she seemed to have no idea who he was. She wasn’t there to get a glimpse of the “eligible bachelor” like some of the young women who visited. There was something more to her, something in her eyes that could transport him to another world, and he wanted to visit that world, to see what wonders her universe held. 

His tux complete, the uniform of a dutiful noble grandson, he headed downstairs, feeling the awkward absence of a partner on his arm that much more acutely now that he had met the mysterious artist. 

* * *

That feeling was only compounded as he stepped into the elegant fundraiser showcasing the sculpture collection of a prestigious gallery. His mother, Lord Wilfred’s daughter, had held important connections as a patron in the art world, connections that could help John find dealers for some of the art stored away in the attics of Mott House. With that cash, he could replace the pipes to the second story. Barring another, more pressing emergency, of course.

“Ready, son?” asked Lord Wilfred. John nodded with a polite smile and led his grandfather into the gallery for the party. Attending art functions was never easy for them since John’s mother’s passing last year, but they knew they needed to take advantage of this opportunity. 

They split up to chat with important contacts, some who hadn’t been able to make the funeral offering their condolences. While each reminder of his mum plucked at the ache in his heart, it didn’t destroy him like it had a year ago. He could see her joy in everything around him: the art, the people, the way she had cared about them and their petty, fussy lives. To him, they were mundane, but she had seen them as a community that needed her kindness and leadership and careful attention. He shook hands with this in mind, sipping champagne and offering his card to potential business contacts when appropriate. Just as he was feeling sure of himself and his role in the game, the air was knocked out of his lungs. 

The artist from the garden. 

She looked much different in a black-tie-formal dress, of course, but she had the same far-away look. She stood away from the party, watching the rough waves on a grey sea. With a sly smile, he noticed her glass was empty. He had his entrance. His smooth line was cut off, however, as she noticed him first. 

“It’s … you,” she said in wonder, a small crinkle forming in her brow. “What are you...? I mean, hello?” 

He exhaled a little laugh. “I could ask you the same question.” 

“Hm?” 

“I didn’t realize you were….” He nodded to the party around them. 

“Oh! I am. Um, on staff, that is. This isn’t my gallery, though. I’m at the one at the university, closer to Cribbenswick.” 

“I don’t want to distract you, if you’re working.” He was feeling a bit of deja vu and he still knew so little about her. The truth was, he did want to distract her, very much. He wanted to ask her a thousand questions, and very few of them had to do with art. 

“Not working,” she answered with a lip bite that led to more questions forming in his ever-curious mind. “Are you here alone?” 

“No, well, yes in the way you mean it, but technically I am here with my grandfather on business. Usually, my cousin—the, umm, shouty woman you met the other day—is with us but she’s had other  _ engagements  _ of late.” He wiggled his empty ring finger to emphasize his pun.

“Ah.” Rose nodded in understanding. “I notice that you too have an empty glass.” She gestured to his hand. 

“Oi, that was supposed to be my line,” he teased. 

“Was it now?” She grinned. “Very smooth. Let’s go then.” 

His rational mind knew she was leading him to the bar, but a part of him would have followed her anywhere. 

She made easy conversation with the bartender and handed him his glass. She parted her lips to speak, but before she could get a word out, a colleague of hers stepped in. He wouldn’t lose her again, though. He stayed by her side, and to his great relief, she introduced them as some of the important contacts he had on his list for the night. 

“That’s the last of my contact cards,” he told her as her colleagues mingled with other party-goers. He followed her back to her spot by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the wild sea. 

“May I ask…” She furrowed her brow. “What’s on them?” 

He mirrored her expression, not following. “Oh, just the standard information, I suppose. My business number and email and such.” 

“No,” she laughed. “I’m asking for your name.” 

Realization dawned over him. They still hadn’t exchanged introductions. She stuck out her hand formally. 

“Rose Tyler, director of the Wickshire Gallery.” 

He took her hand and instead of shaking it, something possessed him to bring it to his lips for a kiss to the back. Luckily, she did not make fun of him for watching too many Edwardian movies. She seemed only a bit confused. But there was a pleasant blush there as well. He decided on the whole truth. Or at least, the relevant bits. 

“Sir John Mott of Cribbenswick, grandson of Lord Cribbenswick. Tour guide, occasional docent, patron of the arts, caretaker, and manager of the Mott House. And its collections.” 

Rose’s face was pink with embarrassment at his revelations. 

“So when I said in the garden, I didn’t own the pathway…” 

“Technically, I do, yes. Or rather, my grandfather does. I don’t own any of it. I simply keep it from falling into ruin.” He hoped his light tone would ease her embarrassment. “I should be thanking you, actually.” 

“Why’s that?” She took a sip of her champagne, reminding him to drink his. 

“Well, without people coming to visit or sketch or take classes, who knows what might become of the old place. Maybe if people see your drawings, they will want to see it themselves. So, thank you.” 

They exchanged a long look before she answered, quietly. 

“You’re welcome. It’s a beautiful place. I’m glad to help.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his grandfather observing them with a fond smile before turning back to his conversation partners. 

John decided bold was his best option. 

“Rose… Tyler, was it?” 

She nodded. 

“I’d like to invite you back to Mott House. Officially. As my guest.”

The flash of a camera and the wave of the event photographer drew their attention away from their conversation, however, and their moment was gone. The rest of the party caught up with them, drawing them away for their professional duties. As John and his grandfather were leaving, he reached down to pull out a contact card to leave her, but was reminded by his empty pocket that he had given them all away. 


	3. Photograph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose Tyler officially has a crush.

The Wickshire Gazette was not the Times of London nor The Guardian by any means, but in their little community, it was still quite influential. It had taken Rose time to get used to “the way things were done” out here, but she had adjusted in large part thanks to the insights of the Gazette. While not always the most newsworthy of topics in a journalistic sense, the paper provided a window into the lives of the wealthy donors and their grandchildren who attended the university. So, in the interest of avoiding faux pas and blending in, she faithfully scrolled through headlines on the paper’s website every morning with her first coffee of the work day. 

This morning, the first headline she clicked was the gallery fundraiser. She did a little fist pump at the lede: A raving success. It was primarily the success of the Gallery-on-the-Sea staff, of course, but a win for one of them was a win for all of them, especially in the tight-knit art community. She stopped scrolling as she came across photos of the party’s guests. She took in their names and faces as a refresher, committing them to memory. One in particular, she mused as she reached the one she was secretly looking for. 

“Sir John Mott,” she mumbled to herself. “And his  _ really  _ great hair.” 

Wait. 

She read the caption again and sighed. 

“Uh oh,” her assistant Mickey Smith popped his head in. “I know that face. What’s with the face?” 

“Listen to this, from the paper about last night. ‘Sir John Mott attends the gallery fundraiser with curator Rose Tyler. Is this lovely companion the lucky one to finally catch Sir John? We wish the Tyler heiress the best on reeling him in.” 

Mickey snorted out a laugh. “I told ya this wasn’t London, you know.” 

“Yes, you remind me at least once a day. But honestly, first off, I’m the director, not a curator.” 

Mickey mimed tipping his hat to her to tease her for caring about such a small status marker considering her much higher status apart from the gallery. 

“SECONDLY, the poor man! I’m not trying to catch him like a prize fish.” Mickey was openly laughing at her now and she joined him. “Ok, yes, this is the Gazette. I’m sure he is no stranger to their writing.” 

Mickey set a stack of folders on her desk with a smirk. “He grew up here. I’m sure he’s used to it by now. You, on the other hand, are totally new to media attention.” 

“Alright, that’s enough. Go do whatever it is that we pay you to do here.” She waved him out of her office, but they both exchanged giggles as he closed her office door on his way out. Mickey was right. This was hardly the chaos of London. She had been naive as a teenager. She’d been raised to value people for who they were, not how much money they had. It was a rude awakening when her first, slightly older, boyfriend had just wanted to use her father’s new fortunes to boost his own music career. Unfortunately, his band had taken off and Rose had been swept up in the wild scene of rebellion and rich kids with too much time and not enough purpose in life. It had cost her father in PR and had cost her mother in worry and tears. 

But that was long ago and any mild interest in her as the wild teen rags-to-riches heiress ex-girlfriend of a has-been one-hit-wonder rock star was long dead and buried. Now her new “tabloid” troubles seemed to be ones harassing the local Mr. Bingley. He certainly seemed too charming to be a Darcy, but they did say it had been a long time coming that anyone had captured his attentions. 

Her Austenite musings were interrupted by the ring of her desk phone. The only people who called her office number were members of the community, so she braced for anything from a request for a recommendation letter for a promising grandson “with real artistic talent!” to a local gossip not-so-subtly trying to find out more about this photo. 

Instead, the voice on the other end of the phone warmed her insides. 

“This is Rose Tyler,” she answered.

“Hallo, Rose Tyler.” 

“Hi.” 

“Hi.” 

“How’re you?” She giggled at his repeated greetings. 

“ _ I’m  _ doing well. I just wanted to call and check in, to see if you’d, ahh, read the local newspaper. If you’re not a subscriber, there might be something I need to explain.” 

“Ah. Yes, I’m a loyal reader. Every morning.” 

“Blimey. Well, please know I said nothing about you being my…” 

“Lovely companion?” she supplied. 

“Yes. Though you are! Lovely, that is. Not my… anything.” 

“Thank you. It’s quite alright. I’ve been called worse things than the companion of the town’s most eligible bachelor.” She couldn’t help but tease him. He was so teasable. She drew little invisible hearts on her computer screen with her mouse pointer. 

“Right! I, that is, we were talking at the fundraiser and I invited you here...” 

“And you wanted to make sure I knew you didn’t plant the suggestion in the minds of the busybodies at the Gazette that it was something unprofessional?” 

“Ah, yes. Strictly professional, of course. If any sort of date it’s a professional one,” he babbled out quickly.

Rose grinned into the phone. “Alright, yeah. Professional date it is.” 

“Also to finish that invitation, I’d like to show you around Mott House, if you’d like. If you like what you see, perhaps you’d consider sketching some of it, or at least encouraging a willing artist you know to do so. We could use a new website, which will require new illustrations, and printed materials to match.” 

Rose sat up straighter. Not only had he not forgotten, he was following through. Very impressive. 

“I’d love that. I’ve never actually been inside.”

“Really? Well then.” He hummed. “How about Friday afternoon?” 

“Sounds perfect. I’ll clear my schedule.” She opened her calendar only to find it was serendipitously empty for Friday afternoon. 

“I’ll send a car to the gallery.” 

“Looking forward to it.”

“See you then, Rose Tyler.” He rang off, and she collapsed back into her chair with a happy sigh. While she was more on the business side and the art history side (her two degrees reminded her on the opposite wall from her desk), she had once dreamt of being an artist full-time. Her father the businessman would have none of it. He would only pay for school if she chose something practical. So business it was, accompanied by an art history degree that was somewhat coincidental, as she took enough classes in the art department that she might as well have something to show for it. Her marks were high enough in art that her parents didn’t bother her about it as long as she had a business head about it. And frankly, Rose knew her mother was just grateful she had turned out to be so studious, even if it was something “impractical,” given what her teenage school years had been like. 

She had been grateful for her father’s connections to have such a career, of course, and plenty of options open for her wherever she wanted to go, but she had known she needed to get out of London. So when she turned 30, she announced she was taking the directorship in Wickshire. No one really understood but Mickey. He had been floating around London museum administration for long enough to have picked up pragmatic senses and how things work on the inside. She brought him with her, and together, they formed a new life. For him that meant meeting his fiancee, a local doctor. For Rose, a beautiful flat, a few casual friends, and hobby classes on the weekends that kept up her skills. And who knows, she dared dream as she closed out of the newspaper website, maybe someday soon, that life would include more of John. 


	4. Architecture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Rose spend time together at his grandfather's estate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pick your favorite great house of England: Downton Abbey, one of the docu-series on Netflix, etc. and picture that.

“Why do you take classes out here?” John asked as they wandered the grounds. They ate sandwiches as they walked, prepared in the House’s kitchens for their meeting.

“I tell everyone at the gallery it’s to try out new classes so I know what we can recommend and what’s working and what’s not,” Rose skirted over the obvious, that she was technically her instructor’s boss and wildly overqualified for the hobby-level skills they were teaching. “I mostly don’t sit in on lectures. I just go along for the field trips.” 

“You mean here,” John supplied. 

“Yes, I suppose I do,” she admitted. “Trees centuries old, ruins of a wall dating back to the Romans, prize-winning roses. I did my homework.” She met his intrigued lift of his eyebrow with a proud tilt of her chin.

“Well done. But what draws _you_ here, specifically?”

“I love it here. In the gardens, I mean. It’s like a different planet.” 

“Nah, there’s dozens of these around the countryside.” He nodded off to the hills. 

“No, I suppose I mean it’s different than what I left behind. In London.” She shrugged and studied the intricacies of the building in front of her instead of meeting his gaze. As they walked, the gravel of the garden path crunched beneath their feet.

He smiled and took a bite of his sandwich. 

“What?” she asked, giving in to the temptation to read his expression. 

“I wondered how I was going to find a segue into that. Heiress Rose Tyler, eh?” 

She remembered the Gazette’s photo caption. 

“Ah.” 

“Left that part out when introducing yourself at the gallery,” he pointed out. 

“Well, it’s a bit pretentious to start with that. If I’d known I was talking to _Sir_ John, I might have included it.” She finished off her sandwich and wiped her fingers on the paper wrapping that had been holding it. 

“So your father is the Vitex man, eh? Peter Tyler? I did a bit of homework myself, I admit.”

“Yep, that’s him. How much did you see?” 

They reached their fateful bench in front of the Fortuna statue and both sat down, as if it were old habit. 

“I saw that Pete Tyler is a shrewd businessman. He took that health drink and built an empire. And in so little time too.”

“Twelve years. Rags to riches, they say. We weren’t exactly in rags, of course.” She laughed. “But going from the neighborhood school on the Powell Estate to St. Catherine’s Academy of the Arts was … formative. I’ve seen a lot of life, the haves and the have nots.” 

“Yeah? Any wise lessons to pass on to those of us born with silver spoons?” He bumped his shoulder against hers. 

“I think in the end, we’re all only human. We all need to know we belong. We all need to be able to take care of those we love. Some have every opportunity and others have none, but I’ve seen families in Peckham give all they have when one of them is sick or in need and I’ve seen families in Chelsea who hardly know each other.” 

He shook his head and gave a quick glance to the skies. She followed his gaze. It would be a bit before the rain hit. 

“You sound like my mum,” he said finally. “She would have loved to meet you.” 

“I’ve heard lovely things about her, though I didn’t know she was your mum until after the fundraiser.” Rose covered his hand with her own. “This community really misses her too, you know. But they all talk about how it helps that you’re here. Carrying on her legacy.” 

He nodded. His hand stiffened under hers, but he didn’t remove it. After a minute, he bounced up from the bench and extended his hand to her. 

“Now! Speaking of legacy, we’ve got work to do.”

She hopped up and took the offered hand. She wanted to ask if he was alright, if she had pushed too far or said something she shouldn’t have. But he was hurrying her along the path back to the house. 

“Rose.” He stopped them on their path. He leaned in. She wet her lips, just in case what she wished would happen was about to happen. He continued talking. “When I say “run,” we’re going to run the rest of the way to the house, alright?” 

She furrowed her brow, not following his plan, but agreed. 

The roll of thunder behind her startled her. 

“One, two, three, RUN!” Just as the countdown ended, the sky opened and poured down on them. They took off running, with her hand still in his. They raced across the pathway up to the house, soaked to the bone. 

* * *

He had given her a pair of his softest shorts and a T-shirt of his from uni that had shrunk in the wash. It looked good on her. A little too good. He redirected his attention to the architectural features he was describing. He was only a man, after all, and seeing her in his clothes … He tried to focus on what he was saying. He knew the spiel in his sleep, but he’d never had this much difficulty sticking to the script. 

She lightly touched her pencil to her lips in thought as she made notes and quick sketches of vital features in his tour. A detailed entryway here, a chandelier, a coat of arms above a fireplace… He had all of the facts and mythology of the house ingrained in him since he was a child, but showing them to her and having her truly notice, even highlight things he had never thought of, allowed him to see them in new ways. Her artist’s eye saw more than the obvious and her historian’s mind was able to follow and fill in details he had forgotten long ago or never would have known. He wondered if she could teach him, not to be an artist or a historian, but to see the world in that way, an observer and active participant in life and not simply a passive inhabitant solving problems as fast as life could throw them his way. 

“Is that you?” Rose pointed to a painted portrait of a young boy in a heavy gold frame.

“No.” John wandered about the library, looking for a reason to change the subject. It didn’t work. Rose turned to him, waiting for the answer. She parted her lips to ask, but hesitated. 

“It’s my father,” he continued, picking up random bobbles and curios and putting them down again. “I don’t know much about him, other than that he went away on business with a very beautiful woman when I was six and I have only seen him a half dozen times since. None of which have ended pleasantly for either of us. Ah, I believe it is time for tea. Let’s move along to the sunroom, shall we? Lovely place for a cuppa and a biscuit. Did you know we grow our own tea leaves? Not much, more of a hobby, but it’s a fun little part of the garden.” 

He led her out of the library as he rambled, and she was kind enough to follow both his walking and his train of conversation. He knew she must have a long list of questions. She surprised him, however, with her next one. 

“Why did you stay?” 

“Sorry?” He showed her to a small table in the sunroom where a steaming teapot and a tray of biscuits awaited them. 

“You could hire someone to take care of all of this. But you don’t.” She set down her notebook and pencil. 

“It’s home,” he answered with a shrug. “I grew up here. I left for boarding school when I was 13, then university, then traveled around the globe... but out of all of those places, I never found it out there. It was here all along. Home, that is.”

“So you came back, then?” 

“In the end, yeah. Mum got sick and Grandfather was getting along in age, so I knew where I was needed. Donna’s been helpful, don’t get me wrong, but she has a life of her own.”

Rose nodded and sipped her tea. 

“Plus, there’s plenty to be done with an old pile of bones like this.” He patted the wall affectionately, making her smile. “It’s my life’s work, keeping this place from becoming an eyesore, even starting to contribute to the local economy when we can, bringing in tourists and school groups, and even an artist here and there.” 

He winked at her and her smile bloomed. He thought he could spend the rest of his life rambling on just to make her smile like that. But he knew they had business to attend to, and he wanted to respect her time. In hopes of course, that if he did and she enjoyed herself, they would be seeing much more of Rose Tyler at Mott House in the future. 

“For what it’s worth,” she reached across the table and touched his hand, “I think you’re doing a fantastic job.” 

It was his turn to smile back at her. They sat in silence for a little while, simply drinking their tea and enjoying each other’s company, before getting to their intended discussions of illustrations and descriptions for the house’s website and brochures. Small touches turned to open flirting. By the end of the evening, there was no question about it. Rose and John would be spending many days and evenings to come dreaming up plans for the old house, and eventually, for themselves.


	5. Paint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John introduces Rose to his family. But others have some opinions to share.

Rose was a city girl, as much as she loved wandering around stately gardens. She had eagerly accepted John’s invitation for a night of stargazing with Donna and Lord Wilfred, but as they hiked around the hillside in the dark, Rose was beginning to regret her choice of shoes. 

“Are you SURE this is the right direction?” Donna shouted. 

“YES,” John returned. “I suppose you want to pull up the map on your mobile and lead us in the exact same direction?” 

“Oi, you two,” their grandfather called with a chuckle. “If you’re done arguing, it’s right there.” He pointed to a spot of hillside that looked exactly the same to Rose as any other, but she was grateful they had arrived at their destination. 

John took her hand and smiled down at her, which looked a bit odd in the light of the mobile phone in his hand, but she returned it anyway. 

Donna unfolded a chair for Wilf and one for herself. John spread out a thick blanket and pillows for himself and Rose, and then he went about setting up their equipment: two telescopes and a starchart app on a tablet. Donna unpacked her bag: wine, glasses for all of them, shortbread biscuits, and a small box of chocolate truffles. They passed these around and settled in with light conversation.

John had told them about Rose’s family and background, so they asked how her parents were doing, Rose showed photos of her much-younger brother, and that led into stories from John and Donna’s childhood. 

Rose was struck by how easy it was. She had been nervous to meet John’s posh family, but they were hardly up to the stereotype. She truly enjoyed spending time with them; in fact, it felt like she’d always known them. They seemed like those kind of people: once you have met them and spent time with them, you feel like family already. At least, that’s how Rose felt as she realized John’s arm had come up around her shoulder as they laughed together. She leaned into his casual half-embrace. 

When their glasses were empty, they set them aside and Wilf deemed it time for Rose’s astronomical education. He made sure they were set up properly, then left it to John to explain what she was seeing. John, of course, took advantage of the opportunity to get close to Rose. Donna and Wilf shared the other telescope. 

“Oh!” Rose exclaimed and looked to John. “Did you see that?” 

“See what?” John blushed in the dark, caught staring at her instead of the sky. 

“There’s more!” Donna pointed in the direction of a surprise meteor shower, if you could even call it that. A few streaks across the sky, but to Rose, it was magical. She understood Van Gogh's famous painting in a new way. She’d hardly believed there could be this many stars, having grown up in London. But this… she took it as a sign of good things to come. 

“Did you make a wish?” John whispered to her alone. 

“I thought that was for the first star you see,” she whispered back, heart pounding at his proximity. 

“Shooting stars are good for wishes too. I made one,” he confessed. 

“What is it?” She smiled at his seriousness. 

“I can’t tell you or it won’t come true.” He shook his head and she instinctively brushed back his hair that fell across his brow. 

Wilf, eye to the telescope, broke in with facts about meteors in these parts, of the largest ones found in the surrounding farmland and the resulting stories of UFOs, which devolved into a discussion of alien life and what it would be like to travel out there amongst the stars. 

“I’d go,” Donna volunteered. “But only if I could bring you all with me. And Lee, of course.”

“He’s a good driver. Think Lee could pilot the spaceship?” Wilf asked. 

“Nah,” John broke in. “I’d be the pilot. I’m good with machines like that.” 

Donna snorted. “Building robots as a hobby doesn’t make you a spaceman.” 

“How come I’ve never seen these robots?” Rose enquired. This sent Donna down another teasing spree from their younger days, which led to John explaining what they all did. Most were to help people, which Rose found endearing, even if they didn’t all work as intended.

She sighed in happiness late that night as they made their way back to the car. John swung their hands between them and looked as content as she felt. Perhaps it was the wine but something told her this would be the first of many such adventures, and she was already looking forward to them. 

* * *

Word got around town that Rose had been spending more and more time at Mott House. The most prominent women of Wickshire happened to drop by her office or gallery functions with increasing regularity, asking how she was doing personally, though they had never shown an interest before. Finally, one day it all made sense.

She was leading the open house night for their young rising artists display. Over lemon bars and tea, a mother of one of the artists introduced herself. 

“Director Tyler, I’m Lady Susan Debourgh.” The woman shook Rose’s hand.

“Pleasure to meet you, Lady Susan. Georgia’s been doing so well in acrylics this year.” 

“Thank you. We’re thinking of taking the summer watercolor class.” 

“Sounds lovely. I have to warn you, though, that one fills up quickly.” 

Susan nodded. “If I may, there’s a rumor going around... and you know how these old gossips can be...” 

Rose raised an eyebrow, but her curiosity got the better of her. 

“I’m all ears.”

“Well,” Lady Susan blushed, “is it true that you’ve taken up with my dear old friend John?”

Rose’s mouth opened but she didn’t know what to say. 

Lady Susan rushed out, “Oh, not that I have any mind about it at all, of course. I think it’s lovely to see him getting out again, someone he has an interest in. It’s only…”

“Only what?” Rose narrowed her eyes as Lady Susan glanced around the room. 

“There have been big plans for Sir John, ever since he was a child. There’s a lot riding on his decision.” 

“His decision.” Rose intended it as a question, but it came out more of a statement. 

“Yes. Many believe it best for the future Lord of Cribbenswick to be mindful of his position.” 

“I assure you, Lady Susan, he thinks of little else,” Rose answered, too taken aback to process what was happening. 

Another woman approached, whom Rose was familiar with for her vocal opinions on the gallery’s board of directors. 

“Rose Tyler,” Carolyn gushed. “I’m so glad Lady Susan’s had a chance to catch you up on our little problem. I hope you don’t mind terribly. He is rather handsome, but I’m sure you understand.” 

Rose grew more puzzled and frustrated. “I’m afraid to say, I do not.” 

“Oh my dear Rose,” Carolyn soothed, “it’s not that we don’t love you here, titles and whatnot are far from the true sign of quality in our opinion, of course. It’s just the position he’s in, you see? It has nothing to do with you and your… background.” 

Suddenly Rose understood perfectly, a punch to the gut she hadn’t felt in a long time. It didn’t matter how much she would inherit or how well she did for herself here. She was new money and there was nothing she could do to earn what she wasn’t born into: Class. She would never be good enough for their Sir John. She thought of his smile and his teasing winks and his flirtations these last many weeks together. 

What if John was simply having his fun? What if, and surely he did, he knew she would never be good enough for him? It was in this moment that she realized an unfortunate fact. 

She loved him. 

Not just attraction or a crush or a plaything. She honestly, truly, loved him. The way he was so openly kind, yes, but also the slow revealing of himself and his painful past he had let her into as they walked the grounds of the estate, as she came across an object or painting or place and he explained it as if for the first time to another living person. The way he treated people he had no social obligation to favor, and yet, everything he did, he did with care and attention despite bouncing with energy. She loved his sense of duty and his pride, his wild adventures and his bluntness, his sudden shyness and his awkward babbling and the way his eyes lit up when he was telling a story or making an impassioned point. She was irrevocably, undeniably, tragically, deeply in love with Sir John Mott. 

Lady Susan was explaining gently about the importance of continuing the Mott family line. But Rose’s hearing turned everything to static. She was going to be sick.

She excused herself and ran out to the gallery’s courtyard, to a private area only staff had access to. She slid down a smooth marble wall and shook with anger and tears and shame at letting her heart get involved so fast and so hard. She knew what she needed to do. 

When she got home that night, she went straight to her easel. She grabbed the canvas and dropped it in the rubbish bin. She collapsed in a huff on her sofa. Naturally, it was too big to fit, so her half-finished portrait of him stared back at her. If it were happening to someone else in a movie, she would have laughed, but she was too tired and frustrated to do anything but fall back into the cushions and stare at the ceiling instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the angsty ending, but the next chapter is coming soon after so you won't have long to wait!


	6. Melt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tells Rose the truth about how he feels about her.

John hadn’t seen Rose in over a week and he was itching to find an excuse to call her. Anything would have worked. But he was currently pacing in front of a stained glass window in the library, phone in hand, divided over whether it would be better to invite her to dinner out or to dinner at the House. She had seen the House, of course, many times in their work together, but perhaps it was more impressive if he cooked for her. Or he could pick a romantic restaurant for something new. 

Of course, in a town the size of Wickshire, there was hardly anything novel about any of the restaurants, and they could be crowded, which was always awkward because he was certain to run into someone who disapproved of something he was doing. Ever since he was a child, there had been self-appointed aunties all over town, trying to keep him in line… or get him to marry one of their daughters. Donna found it amusing, so she hadn’t exactly helped the situation. But now he was grown and should be able to take out his lady friend wherever he liked, ta. 

He tripped over a table leg as he paced, and his thumb hit his phone keyboard as it flew out of his hand. 

He panicked as he realized it had sent Rose a text: “Hallo Rose! I was wondering if you would like to …” No, no, no nonono… The indecision about whether to invite her out or in meant that the words of the text stopped there. And his phone had hit the emoji keyboard. A kissy smiley face. He had asked Rose if she would like to kissy smiley face. 

John groaned and buried his face in his hands. The message had sent. There was no editing it or deleting it. He saw her typing dots bubble pop up and rushed to type out an explanation. 

“So sorry! I dropped my phone,” he sent. 

Her typing bubble went away. 

“I meant to ask you to dinner,” he finished. 

He waited as the typing bubble reappeared and disappeared several times. 

Finally she responded, “ok.” 

That was it. No laughing face or teasing or flirting with him about kissy faces. Even in his embarrassment, he thought it odd. 

He texted her a time and a date, which she agreed to, and tried to put it behind him. He would take her out to an elegant restaurant, show her he could be a competent adult, and make it up to her. Perhaps it would be a funny story to tell later of their real first kiss. That thought warmed him and focused his energies on making it through to their date, now that he had a goal in mind. It would all work out in his plan. 

* * *

When he picked her up, she answered the door in a heart-stopping cocktail dress, perfect for the venue. 

“Ready?” she asked nervously. 

“Not yet,” he answered, pecking a kiss to her cheek as a promise of what was yet to come. He pulled back and grinned at her. “Rose Tyler, you look beautiful.” 

“Thank you,” she responded politely, but her small smile quickly fell. His brow creased as he followed her out to his car and opened the door for her. 

Their small talk was uneasy on the way to the restaurant, which was an unusual challenge for him. Usually people were easily charmed by his “gift of gob,” and Rose was an equal match for his wit, always quick with a comeback or joke or flirtation. He allowed her space and himself time to think as they made their way inside. He caught a few glances in their direction, and thought he heard a woman mutter “How bold!” and another “Well, that’s that then.” Rose didn’t seem to hear them, or at least she paid them no mind. Normally, he’d be proud to follow her example, but something told him that rather than ignoring the petty gossip of the town, she was more preoccupied with something else.

“Rose,” he asked with as much gentleness as his excitement for the evening’s plans would allow. “Are you alright?” 

Rose picked up her menu and hid her face, looking at the options. “Fine, thanks.”

He blinked but the waiter arrived to take their order. With the menu out of her hands, Rose was left looking vulnerable, defenseless. He couldn’t imagine why, so he took her hand on the table. She didn’t remove it, but she looked around the restaurant instead of into his eyes. 

He followed her gaze to a group of women doing a poor job of concealing their spying. “Let them talk,” he mused. “I have the prettiest date in the room and I’m not going to apologize for that.” He expected at least a small smile, but she worried her bottom lip. 

“John,” she finally whispered. “I know you’re trying to be sweet about this and you mean well, but perhaps…” 

His heart lurched. He had been so certain she wanted the same thing he did. Was she breaking up with him? Her eyes were tearing up but she was making a valiant effort to hold them back. 

“... perhaps, if you wanted to let me down easy, it would have been better in private.” 

John furrowed his brow, trying to make out what she meant. 

“Rose… I would do anything not to let you down. I’m trying …” 

Then the wheels clicked into place. He’d received so many hints from these aunties (and a few of their husbands who had been put up to the task) that he should think about his family line and his status and his future, the estate’s future. Head over heels that he was, he thought they were urging him on to become more serious about his pursuit of Rose, to let her know his intentions, as it were. 

“They told me the truth. You don’t have to be all chivalrous about it,” Rose muttered so only he could hear. 

“Ohhhh no, Rose, I’m not… That is, I do…” 

Her face was flushed. He tried to find the words, but something caught his eye. Carolyn and her band of wolves were not-so-subtly leaning to get a look at him and Rose. 

His voice grew cold. Colder than he’d ever let her hear it. “What did they tell you?” 

His change in tone shocked her into meeting his eyes, he realized, for the first time that evening. “Rose. What did they tell you?”

Rose sighed and, with the air of someone pulling off a plaster, stated her answer, “They informed me of your obligations. And I’m grateful they did. I think it’s best if we are honest with each other, Sir John.” 

Her use of his title struck a blow. She sat up straight as an arrow, regal and determined. 

“I don’t have what you need,” she finished neatly. “And I never will. I can’t draw or paint myself into a title, so that’s that. I am just glad we got this out in the open before we started something or got the wrong impression. Now that would have been embarrassing for both of us.” She gave a forced hint of a smile for the sake of their audience. 

He processed this slowly, admiring her ability to not give the biddies a scene, which they had been looking forward to. 

“There are many things about which you are gravely mistaken, Rose Tyler. But you were right about one thing. This is certainly a conversation to have in private.” 

He called a waiter over and asked that their food be delivered “upstairs.” The waiter nodded and hurried back to the kitchen. Before Rose could ask, John took her hand and was guiding her toward the back of the restaurant, past the owner’s office and through a doorway. 

“Promise it will be worth it,” was all he said as she realized he was taking her up a bare but polished old wooden staircase. She shot him a look that said clearly this was the last bit of patience she had, but she followed him all the same, slipping off her heels and carrying them in one hand with the other on the smooth staircase railing as they climbed. 

* * *

John opened a door at the top of the staircase to a rooftop, and Rose gasped. It was cliche and perhaps a bit cheesy, but she was too emotionally strung out to care. If the clouds on the horizon broke in just the right way, they would be having a sunset worth painting in less than an hour. 

He led her to a patio table. Three metal chairs around a slightly tilted metal table, which had a hole for an umbrella but no umbrella in sight. The wood pallets and empty crates around the perimeter of the rooftop were a stark contrast to the posh restaurant. 

“I have to ask,” Rose began, “how did you know about this?” 

“My mother used to have meetings in the restaurant,” he answered. “I was too young and bored to sit inside, so they would bring me a child’s plate up here. I would draw the view of the city on the spare butcher paper they brought with it. Nothing impressive like the kids in your new show at the gallery. But it passed the time.” 

The waiter brought up their meal and said he’d be back to check on them later. John shared little stories of his rooftop misadventures while they ate, which helped Rose to relax. She knew at some point, they would have to confront the issue of their future together, however. He noticed she had stopped responding and sighed. 

“I’m always honored, you know, when you tell me about your past,” she said finally. “I know it’s hard for you, and you’ve lost so much. I just wanted you to know that, whatever comes next, I’m grateful I’ve gotten to know you, John.” 

He nodded. “If it were your choice… what would you choose?” 

“What do you mean?” She tilted her head. 

“I mean, if you were me…” He looked out over the landscape. “Would it matter to you what people said, titles and nobility and gossip?” 

She wanted to deny it. “Maybe, if I’m honest, the last bit. But not why you think! Only that I know you love this community. It isn’t just about the house; it’s about everyone here, what you mean to them.” 

“You agree with them then?” He raised an eyebrow. ‘That I have a responsibility--” 

“Wait!” she cut him off. “I don’t mean like, to marry some countess or whatever, but just that you are going to have to live with your decision for a very long time. The rest of your life, if you're lucky.” 

He nodded, dark eyes melting her. She continued, almost on a whisper. “I don’t want to stand in the way of that.”

“What if I wanted something else, some _ one _ else, other than what they have planned for me?” 

Rose swallowed, but found herself unable to respond. She was saved by the sound of the swinging of the door. The waiter came to collect their plates. They thanked him and told him that would be all. 

As soon as the waiter was gone, John took out his phone and put on a slow dance from the 1940s that Rose recognized but couldn’t place exactly. He stood and offered his hand. 

It was all too perfect. She took it, of course, and they danced to the picturesque sunset she had predicted when they first came out here. Another song came on and instead of backing away, he pulled her closer as they swayed together.

“Rose,” he breathed. He traced a light touch over her cheek, wetting his lips.

“Don’t make me believe it if you don’t…” Rose begged. 

“I do, though, I mean it. I’m not saying we have to decide the future now. Only give me a chance to prove it to you, that we could have everything, Rose. I don’t care what anyone says. I know my duty here, to this place, but I can’t bear to think of that without you in it.” He paused and searched her eyes, finding only compassion and hope, and not judgment or hesitation. “I’m falling in love with you, Rose Tyler. Fall with me?” 

She answered him with a searing kiss, which he gladly returned. They hardly noticed the night settling in around them and the lights of the town spreading out beneath them. 

While Rose wouldn’t say she intentionally left his hair noticeably mussed with faint lipstick stains around his mouth, had one of the town biddies commented on his appearance as they left the restaurant, she wouldn’t have denied it either. 

Let them talk. The Lady Fortuna had smiled upon John and Rose, and they wouldn’t be swayed from following the path she set for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is technically the last chapter of this fic, but there is a smutty epilogue I will put in a separate fic in the same verse. I wanted to keep this one with a General audiences rating, and if you don't like smut, you can end here. But if you do want a little more intimate of a happy ending, keep your eyes open (aka subscribe to me as an author, not just this fic, if you have not already) for that coming soon. :) #shamelesselfpromo
> 
> (Also I hope it's obvious enough that these ladies weren't, like, evil or anything. They will accept it in time and respect his choice. Just town busybodies looking out for their favorite little boy who is actually quite well grown and capable of making his own decisions.)


End file.
